


If You WIll Marry Me

by phantomessangel



Series: Edge of Night [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Marriage, Mithril, Really just fluff, Romance, gold - Freeform, kinda romantic?, maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:02:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3092363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomessangel/pseuds/phantomessangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Interlude between "A Single Dream..." and "Come to Morning..." as seen through Thorin Oakenshield's eyes. After the battle of Erebor, in the time that Lyla Baggins is recovering, Thorin's mind is drawn to the hobbit's fascination and appreciation for flowers and trees, thus sparking a small project and the humming of a certain song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You WIll Marry Me

**Author's Note:**

> A small interlude that struck my mind and one I wanted to share as a birthday present for my dear @ralover89. Happy belated birthday! I hope you enjoy it.

Thorin was, admittedly, a gifted metal smith. He could wield and manipulate gold into the finest of jewelry. He had keen eyes, and could find the most glittering sapphires or rubies. And, he knew just how to fasten them into the crowns, necklaces, and bracelets that he constructed.  His attention to detail was one that rivaled his father, a famed smith in his own right. It was a trait of the royal family to be particularly gifted in beadwork and jewelry making. It showed their heritage, their good breeding.

Or, at least, his mother had often told him this.

Thorin loved to please his mother. Loved her praise.

But mostly, he came to find, he loved the solitude, the ability to focus on something so completely and shut out the rest of the world. It was a great relief for him.

And his mother only encouraged his fascination with creation and working with gold and mithril and fine gems.

“It’s a grand escape,” She’d often murmur in his ear with a smile and a wink.

After she passed, though? Metal work wasn’t as important. His father and grandfather pushed Thorin to step into his role as the heir to the throne, to understand the diplomacy of his position, the various ways in which one could display power and so forth.

No, the metal work waited, cast aside until he could return to it.

Thorin huffed in annoyance though.

None of that mattered right now.

Because none of that mattered to _her_.

He’d seen the way she’d preferred to stare up at the trees, especially in Rivendell. Her eyes were always drawn upward, inspecting, smiling, and breathing in the heady scents of the woodlands and the earth.

He watched the way she smiled at the animals at Beorn’s, marveling at the large bees and the honeycomb and the simply architecture that spoke of a nearness to the outdoors.

It must have reminded her of her own home, that little hobbit hole covered by lush, green grass, shining in the sunlight. All was peaceful there.

It was this fascination with the world around that the hobbit had that first made Thorin annoyed. He found her preference for trees and good food to mean that she was soft, weak, and incapable. It irked him that someone so…so nurtured on sunlight and peace would be recommended for his venture. It didn’t make sense. It was impractical.

“You are a fool to think that this…halfling will ever be of any use to me,” He’d spat at Gandalf.

The grey wizard, for his part, seemed completely unruffled by Thorin’s contempt for his choice of burglar.

It would never last, he’d decided. He’d drive the foolish master Baggins back to his comfortable armchair and be done with the issue.

Except, that’s not how it worked out.

Master Baggins, who turned out to be a _Mistress_ Baggins, ended up showing more stubbornness and tenacity than he ever thought possible in the form of a comfort-loving, Shireling.

Thorin paused his walk and smiled at where his thoughts had tended.

“Lyla Baggins,” He murmured staring out at the sloping hillside of the lonely mountain.

Certianly a strange creature, a most unexpected ally.

But, an ally that Thorin was loathe to part with.

All the memories of the battle for Erebor came hard and clear to his mind, making the King under the mountain wince. He remembered his harsh words, his cruelty and coldness towards the one he professed to hold dearer than anything. He remembered casting her aside, casting them all aside and subjecting them all to danger.

By Durin he remembered it all.

And the way she almost…

“Givashel,” He sighed again, casting his eyes downward towards the low lying brush that lay tucked within the crevices of the eastern slopes of the mountain.

She’d almost died. To save him. And he’d…

By some miracle (thanks to the elves, he grudgingly admitted) she’d pulled back to them, and that moment when her eyes had opened?

He’d vowed in that moment that he’d prove to her all that she saw in him. All that he could not yet see in himself.

“Aha.” Reaching down into the small nook he’d visited a few days before, Thorin pulled forth the delicate yellow flower that lay nestled against the rock, still thriving, even in the growing cold.

The small, yellow plant reminded him of the way the sunlight wrapped around Lyla’s golden curls, and made her hazel eyes sparkle.

He’d given her a similar flower a few days before, after inquiring from Ori what sorts of things hobbits might prefer.

Ori, it appeared, had delved into a deep conversation with hobbit concerning her favorite flowers and their significance.

THAT had prompted Thorin to move to the library in search of a specific book. And then, out of doors in pursuit of a specific flower.

One that made him smile when he saw that way Lyla’s face lit up at seeing the plant. She’d made a careful attempt to press it into a book that Thranduil had brought to her bedside.

“So I can keep it and remember,” she’d remarked drowsily.

THAT small act, by her tired fingers, sparked a thought. One that came sharper and clearer the more he’d watched her sleep, the more he stared at the bead that hung on the chain about her neck.

And so he’d gone in search of the flower.

And now, returning to his own chambers—not before checking in on the recovering hobbit—he made his way towards his sketch pad and small box of tools.

Gold would be too ordinary, too one dimensional, he decided.

And what jewels would he use?

Thorin pulled forth his small trove of tools, mindful of the sharp edges and carefully sifted through the different gems and metals he had within the small compartments in the box.

Which would compliment it best?

Silver?

“No,” he remarked softly, “Mithril. And Gold.”

Yes, that would work well. The combing would highlight the delicate nature of the piece. It would bring it to life.

He held up the flower, watching as the yellow color had muted in the torchlight. Though, it wasn’t an unpleasant color. Rather, it was more subtle, softer, more tender in a way.

Gently, Thorin rubbed his thumb and forefinger over a petal, feeling the silky texture of the flower’s petal and noting the contrast between that and the more firm green stalk and leaf of the flower’s base.

The images started coming together in his mind as Thorin removed the small booklet and charcoal pencil and replaced the tools.

He’d be using those soon.

*****

Balin was weary. Every joint ached and sleep tugged at the corners of his eyes as he shuffled down the hall towards his sleeping quarters.

Rest would be most welcome, he decided.

Yet, as he got closer to his door at the end of the hall, something tickled his ears.

Balin was struck with surprise as he neared the hobbit’s room.

A familiar noise reached his ears.

The dwarf narrowed his eyes in questioning, his brows furrowing as the words of the music filled his mind.

Who would…?

Silently, Balin edged closer to the doorway that sat ajar and peered inside, curious to see who was humming such a tune.

His curious gaze turned to one of surprise and then mild amusement as he watched the scene before him.

One king under the mountain sat in the chair nearest to the bed where a hobbit sat reading. His right foot was propped against the side table. The leg that was propped held a small booklet on which Thorin was marking different things, only pausing every few moments to peer up at the other creature in the room, one who was completely absorbed in her book, just as the dwarf king was absorbed in his work.

Sketching, Balin realized as he retreated hastily away from the intimate scene, the smile still on his lips. Even from the distance he was at, Balin could see that Thorin was carefully sketching Lyla’s likeness with his charcoal pencil. He’d spied the small upturn of her nose, and the smattering of freckles on her cheeks. He noted the way Thorin had painstakingly captured each wayward curl atop the hobbit’s head, and the way in which her lips were turned into a soft, natural smile.

What struck him most profoundly, though, was what else he’d sketched with the hobbit’s likeness.

Sketching and humming that tune.

Oh Mahal help Thorin Oakenshield.

He was smitten.

*****

It didn’t strike Thorin as odd that he was humming. He often did that when he sketched.

It DID, however, strike him as odd that he was humming THAT particular tune.

Until…

“That’s a lovely tune. Does it bear any special significance?” Lyla’s soft, dulcet voice, made Thorin start in surprise, his charcoal pencil nearly casting a strike through his sketching.

And what a waste that would have been.

Thorin cleared his throat and straightened as he peered up at the hobbit, noting her large hazel eyes peering at him innocently, questioningly.

“Yes,” he remarked lowly, “It does hold significance.”

How best to word this without…startling her?

Lyla, for her part, merely nodded her head and smiled, “Does it have any words that go along with the melody?”

Thorin swallowed back the emotion that suddenly rose to his throat as he watched the hobbit carefully.

He finally nodded in reply.

“Yes, but I’m afraid that I cannot sing those words to you. I don’t think I’d do them justice. And, the tune is really meant for two voices.”

“Oh, well perhaps you’ll teach it to me?”

At that, Thorin smiled and reached forward to grab Lyla’s unbandaged arm. Running his thumb gently across the back of her hand he wrapped his other fingers around her small, slender ones.

“Gladly, dear Givashel,” Thorin leaned forward more, until his forehead rested gently against Lyla’s. He could hear the way her heart sped up, and could see the soft flush of her cheeks as he closed the distance between their faces. “I will gladly teach you that song when you are recovered and the chaos of the mountain has settled.”

 

Lyla nodded and smiled shyly, her eyes betraying her hesitancy, even though she did not pull away from the dwarf.

Thorin took one more moment, to rub his nose against hers, reveling in the sweet smell of lavender and vanilla that seemed to permeate her being.

Thorin’s sketch pad fell to the ground, as he reached up and gently ran a few fingers through Lyla hair. His lips ghosted against her own, soft, warm and inviting, parting of their own accord. They tasted sweet, like the fairest honeycomb and her breathing was warm and enticing to his senses. But, he did not pursue further. Only placed another small kiss against her cheek and forehead before pulling away.

However much he desired to.

Indeed he would teach her that song.

One day.

*****

Later, as Thorin bid Lyla a goodnight, he returned to his room, after a long, grueling meeting with some of the different dwarf lords, Master Bard, and Thranduil, and pulled forth his box once more.

He’d acquired more metal, plenty to get started on his design.

Thorin pulled out the yellow flower from the confines of his own book that sat near his own bedside and stared at it carefully as he arranged his tools.

The humming started up again and he couldn’t help but smile sadly at the memories it conjured.

The last time that song had been sung, the last time he’d heard it, was when Dis was alive.

At her wedding.

But the more he hummed it, the more he thought of Lyla, and the more he was eager to fulfill her request.

“Will you teach me the words?”

He hoped he would.

“I’ll swim and sail on savage seas,” his voice was low as he took hold of the malleable gold, grabbing his soft edged scraper, “with ne’er a fear of drowning.”

He’d remembered the way Dis’s husband had sung those words to Dis, their arms locked together in the traditional wedding hold.

He worked slowly on the gold. First hammering it out, and then, gently applying a soft bit of heat to make it more bendable, rolling different pieced into long, round rods.

He did the same with the mithril.

“And gladly ride the waves of life,”

Carefully, he wove the gold and mithril together, forming a twisting vine of metal.

“If you will marry me.”

He cast another glance at the little yellow flower, and then down at his sketching, before hammering out more gold and mithril, these into thin sheets.

Ones that would become flowers.

Flowers for the crown he hoped to place atop his Givashel’s head when they were married.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're curious as to the song he's humming, it's from HTTYD2. you can go here: 
> 
> http://youtu.be/e3gPVdVrahQ
> 
> And if you'd like to get an idea of the crown:
> 
> http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/736x/f6/a1/f0/f6a1f0c2279bafeff241b15b60cb537e.jpg


End file.
